


All the Time in the World

by tahitianmangoes



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Character Death, F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi, Racism, Sex, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-09
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:40:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24616192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tahitianmangoes/pseuds/tahitianmangoes
Summary: Is Our Fate Sealed by Time?The age old question. Would you kill Hilter if you could go back in time? Maybe stop the Kennedy assassination? Maybe you would revisit an old flame or change the outcome of an argument that had caused a rift. You could change your choices for everything that went wrong, for everything that didn’t work out the way you had hoped it would. But that’s not the way of the world. Life isn’t fair like that.Poppy Sinclair just found out that her grandfather is a time traveller. Now he wants her to follow in his footsteps. Can Poppy save the Van Der Linde gang?
Relationships: Abigail Roberts Marston/John Marston, Arthur Morgan/Original Female Character(s), Hosea Matthews/Dutch van der Linde
Comments: 22
Kudos: 35





	1. Points In Time

**Author's Note:**

> Hello!!  
> This is something I've been working on for a short while now and I'm so excited to share it.  
> This is my first OC so I was a little apprehensive as I know it's not everyone's cup of tea. But for those of you who do like that kind of tea, I hope you enjoy this fic! It'll be chaptered and probably a lengthy one.  
> Let me know any thoughts or comments you have!! Ty ^^
> 
> (More pairings, tags etc will be added as the fic progresses and I work a few things out!)

_When she stepped back into the small log cabin again, he was already waiting for her.  
"I thought that you would come back," he said. His bright eyes met her sad ones. "I hoped perhaps you wouldn't this time… but that's not like you, is it?"  
She said nothing. He sighed.  
"Whatever are we going to do with you, Miss Sinclair?"_

Is Our Fate Sealed by Time?

The age old question. Would you kill Hilter if you could go back in time? Maybe stop the Kennedy assassination? Maybe you would revisit an old flame or change the outcome of an argument that caused a rift. You could change your choices for everything that went wrong, for everything that didn’t work out the way you had hoped it would. But that’s not the way of the world. Life isn’t fair like that. 

Someone once said “Some trees flourish, others die. Some cattle grow strong, others are taken by wolves. Some men are born rich enough and dumb enough to enjoy their lives. Ain’t nothing fair.” Maybe they were right.

It was gone eleven on Friday night when Poppy Sinclair returned home from her shift at the restaurant. It had turned out that it would be her last shift there; the manager had gathered the team around after the sign was flipped and informed everyone that the restaurant was closing down. Too much competition, he had said.

Poppy knew she should have felt bad about it but she had never intended to be a waitress for the rest of her life. Not that she knew what she _would _do for the rest of her life.  
She had a degree in journalism but after a lacklustre internship, she’d failed to secure a job in the field and had all but given up.  
She’d become too comfortable, too lazy, still living at home, taking shifts at The Atrium for minimum wage and a few tips when large groups of tourists came in over the summer or work parties came in over Christmas. __

__When she pulled up outside the corn blue, two story house, she could see that the downstairs lights were still on. That meant that her grandfather was still awake, probably watching TV in the living room. He’d been ill the last few months and discovered Netflix whilst being stuck at home. He’d binge series after series until the early hours of the morning. Sometimes Poppy would fall asleep downstairs with him and wake up on the sofa with a blanket over her, she was still a kid in her grandfather’s eyes, she supposed._ _

__Francis Sinclair was an interesting man, if not a little eccentric. He always had a story or a joke to tell. He had a shock or bright red hair and pale blue eyes. On the right side of his face was a pink birthmark. He talked quickly, always had done and gesticulated a lot when he did so. He usually had a cigarette in his hand but he’d quit a few years back._ _

__Poppy had lived with Francis since the age of seven. Poppy’s mother passed away in a car accident in South Korea where Poppy had been born to her American mother and her South Korean father. Thankfully Poppy had not been in the car at the time but her father was, he had been driving. Maybe he blamed himself for not dying when Jennifer had… Maybe that was why, just under a year later, he sent Poppy back to Buffalo, New York to live with Francis.  
She wasn’t in contact with her father anymore and hadn’t seen him since her mother’s funeral. When she was younger, she had thought that he just didn’t care about her but now she was older, she realised that he was just grieving and probably didn’t know how to cope. _ _

__It didn't excuse that her father had abandoned her and left her grandfather to take care of her.  
It was only now that Poppy was older that she realised how much grief and sadness her grandfather had endured yet never shown her to make sure she could have the best childhood that she could. _ _

__

__She loved Francis dearly, he was the only father that Poppy had _really_ known and he had always done the best he could.  
Her grandmother had passed away when she was two; Poppy had never met her. But there were pictures of her all over the house. There were pictures of Poppy’s mother, too._ _

__“You look just like her.” Francis would say.  
Jennifer Sinclair was a graceful looking woman: willowy with long red curls falling about her heart shaped face. Her bright blue eyes looked back at Francis as he smiled fondly at the photographs of her. _ _

__Poppy was short with a boyish figure. Her hair didn’t look like a hair commercial, more like the before photo in a makeover transformation - it was frizzy and dark, the only red of her mother’s shining through when it caught the sunlight. Poppy’s skin was a little darker - dirtier in her opinion, her eyes weren’t large and clear like Jennifer’s but small, monolided and dark. She had freckles speckled across her face, a small flat nose and plump little lips._ _

__Sometimes Poppy still felt like she was still waiting to grow into a woman’s body like her mother’s, like the other women at work or those who she had gone to college with but she was still waiting for that day to come._ _

__

__“How was work, poppet?” Francis called when he heard the front door close behind her.  
Poppy made a noise in response.  
She entered the living room where Francis was sitting on the sofa, as if he were waiting for her. Part of her thought that he was, to make sure she got home ok from her late shift.  
“That bad, huh?”  
Poppy flopped down beside him. “What is it today?” She asked, gesturing to the TV. “Stranger Things?”  
Francis smirked, “no, Black Mirror.”  
“Cheerful.” _ _

__Poppy sighed. “The restaurant’s closed down.”  
“The food’s not _that_ bad.” Francis joked. When his eyes met hers, his smile faltered. “It’s really closed down?”  
Poppy nodded, “so technically, I’m unemployed now.”  
Francis was quiet for a moment before saying, “well, good riddance. That job was holding you back, poppet.”  
_From what?_ She thought but she didn’t say so. _ _

__Francis went back to Black Mirror and Poppy checked Facebook on her phone. She scrolled until she saw that another one of her highschool friends had gotten engaged. That made four over this spring alone.  
Poppy made another noise and threw herself back onto the sofa dramatically, “ugh! What am I doing, grandpa? I’m 25, unemployed, single and no offense, living with an old man.”  
“None taken!” Francis laughed heartily, “you’re a spring chicken, Poppy. There’s no rush.”_ _

__She didn’t reply again. Francis’s light eyes continued to watch her. Her brow furrowed in frustration as she returned her gaze to her phone, the backlight reflected in her amber eyes. She looked at the girl from her highschool who she didn’t even speak to irl anymore, that smug photo grinning back at her, her arm around her fiance and her engagement ring sparkling on her finger._ _

__“Is that what you really want?” Francis asked, “I mean… You don’t even have a boyfriend, poppet.”  
“Don’t rub it in, old man.” Poppy said a hint of a smile on her face. He wasn’t wrong. She hadn’t had a boyfriend since her senior year of college and even then, it hadn’t been earth shattering, not even in the slightest . “I guess not.” She replied dejectedly. _ _

__“There’s something I’ve been wanting to show you… But I’ve not known the right time. I think now is the right time.” Francis told her a change in his tone made Poppy’s ears prick up, “I need you to be open minded, alright?”  
Poppy frowned, “what are you talking about, grandpa?”  
“You’ll see tomorrow, poppet.” He handed her a book, it was hardback and heavy, it looked well read, “I want you to read this first, though..”  
Poppy turned her frown towards the book, “the American frontier?”_ _

__“I think you’ve finally lost your marbles, old man.” She smirked.  
Francis’s light eyes sparkled as he laughed. “Humor an old fool.” He said to her.  
She raised her eyebrows but took the book anyway, “you know this is sadder for me than it is for you, seeing you go senile like this.” _ _

__She went up to her room. She looked at the photograph on Facebook again before sighing and placing her phone face down on her bed.  
She thumbed the book Francis had given her absentmindedly as she sat at her desk. _ _

____

_“American frontier, in United States history, the advancing border that marked those lands that had been settled by Europeans. It is characterized by the westward movement of European settlers from the original Atlantic coast (17th century) to the Far West (19th century).”_

She vaguely remembered covering this in school but hadn’t been interested then, either. She put the book down and logged into her laptop. She spent the next couple of hours applying for jobs on Indeed and eventually, fell down a YouTube rabbit hole where she watched at least five pressure washing videos before crawling to bed.

“Did you read the book?” Francis asked Poppy over breakfast the next day. He had been up early, he usually was. The sound of the radio from the kitchen and the smell of fresh pancakes had tempted Poppy downstairs.  
“Uhh, kinda. Why? Is there gonna be a quiz?”  
“That’s a no then… No matter. Maybe it’s just something you gotta see.”  
“You’re actin’ real strange, grandpa…”

Francis didn’t say much more. After breakfast, he told her to follow him upstairs to his study. He didn’t use it as a study so much any more but Poppy remembered when he used to spend hours at a time up there. She assumed that he was working but, to be quite honest, he had always been vague about what it was he did for a living...

Poppy had always been fascinated with the room, it was full from corner to corner of oddities like replicas of pyramids, drawings pinned to every wall and little rocks with weird carvings in them. She vividly remembered one time when Francis had scolded her for going into the office and picking up one of the rocks when she was a lot younger. 

“You’re not to touch these, honey.” He’d said to her, trying to sound like he wasn’t mad but the look in his eyes and the grip with which he held her wrist had given him away.

And now, here she was, standing in the study, looking at the walnut desk where Francis had neatly arranged all those little artefacts out for her.  
“Grandpa, what is all of this?” She asked.  
“You just need to see for yourself.”

“The rocks?” Poppy asked him.  
“Yes. These rocks are very important. I’ve had them since I was a boy, your great grandmother gave them to me.”  
Poppy leant in to inspect them. Each rock seemed to be engraved, one with a dirigible, another with what looked like a Greek painting, a cart or wagon and what looked like a man jumping through a portal.  
“What does it mean?” Poppy asked, putting her head to one side. They reminded her of the sort of rocks you can buy at gift shops by the beach.

“From what I’ve worked out over the years, they’re points in time.”  
Poppy looked blankly at Francis.  
“I don’t think I have all of them. Well, that’s what I’ve been trying to do for a long time, my father was doing the same before he died, my mother tried to carry on with it but you try raising a kid as a single mother and also research quantum mechanics…”  
“Grandpa..?” He was babbling again, as he often did. 

Francis often rambled, Poppy was used to that but this was different. He seemed erratic somehow. It almost scared Poppy. Francis could be unconventional, even a bit kooky but this was different. At the same time, this was the first time Poppy had seen him so energetic in months since he had fallen ill...

Francis gestured to the rock with the wagon etching. “Hold it.” He told her.  
Something in his voice told her not to argue. She took the rock in her hand and held it. It was a little jagged and cold, exactly what she expected. It felt… like a normal rock. Was something supposed to happen?

Francis reached and took her free hand.

Poppy frowned. She was about to turn to Francis, to ask him whether this was a joke when suddenly, she felt as if the room was moving. She felt like she was floating, the room blurred. 

She looked to Francis, his eyes stared into hers as the world around them spun and suddenly, they weren’t in the office anymore. They weren’t anywhere anymore.  
Poppy could hear wind rushing past her ears. She squeezed her eyes shut and squeezed the rock in her hand even tighter. She wanted to scream but the wind took her breath away. 

The wind stopped and Poppy could feel the ground beneath her feet again. She could smell wood, freshly chopped. When she opened her eyes, it was no longer the office but a cabin. On the walls were the same pictures that she recognised from Francis’s office, there was a bed, some cabinets and a sink. There was a table that looked like it had been recently set...

Poppy rounded on Francis, “what the hell is this?”

“Honey, I know this might seem a little…” He let himself trail off and looked around the cabin too, as if looking for inspiration. 

Poppy was rooted to the spot, her heart was racing. This couldn’t be right. Was she dreaming, was she hallucinating?  
Her eyes settled on the window by the small kitchenette. Beyond the window pane, she could see tall trees. Out of the window of their house in Buffalo, she could only see the street and houses, there were no trees, not like this. She felt herself shaking as she slowly headed to the dark wooden door of the cabin, her fingers trembled as she reached for the handle and with a deep breath, pushed the door open.

Beyond the door was country. Country as Poppy hadn’t really seen before. The cabin itself was surrounded by tall conifer trees, she could smell greenery and pine. She could hear birds chirping, water off to the distance and… Not much else. It was peaceful and still.  
She turned back to Francis who had drawn the chair from the table and was now sitting, looking at her nervously. 

“Where is this?” Poppy asked.  
“West Elizabeth. Tuesday May 30th 1899.”


	2. Like Clockwork

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“It goes on like clockwork. Whether you talk to them or not. Whether you intervene or not. It goes on and when you come back, it’ll all happen again. The world keeps turning.”_

Poppy felt disoriented. Like she might be sick. The world spun again and she slumped in the doorway of the cabin.  
She felt Francis’s arms around her, pulling her back inside and sitting her down at the table where he had just sat.

“It’s a lot to take in, I know poppet.” He was saying. He was busying himself in the kitchenette, “but it’s better to show you. This way… Well, this way you won’t think I’m insane.” 

Poppy stared blankly at him. She definitely thought that he was insane. And she must be insane too. 

In movies they would pinch or slap themselves to make sure they weren’t dreaming. Poppy knew she wasn’t but maybe she’d blink real hard and be sitting back in the kitchen with a stack of pancakes before her and Bruno Mars still playing on the radio.

That didn’t happen. She heard the birdsong from outside and the whistle of a kettle from the kitchenette. Francis was making tea now, he set a cup down in front of her and sat back down himself.

“We just time travelled, poppet.” He said, as if he had just told her that they were out of milk.  
“You gotta be kiddin’ me.” Poppy mumbled.  
Francis’s face broke into a smile, the lines around his eyes crinkled. “I’m not. It’s Tuesday May 30th 1899, like I said.”  
“How do you know?”  
The smile seemed to darken just a touch as he said, “it always is.” 

Poppy brought the cup to her lips shakily and drank the tea to give herself something else to concentrate on.

“I’ve been coming here since I was a boy. All those rocks are points in time, I’ve been to many places but this… This place always draws me back.”  
“Since you were a boy?”  
Francis nodded. “My father, Thomas, your great grandfather would take me. When he passed, my mother, your great grandmother, took me, too. They were trying to work it out, the hows and the whys… I’m afraid nearly seventy years later, I still don’t really know the hows and whys… I’ve written everything down over the years to try and make sense of it all… Not that I really have...”

Over the next hour or so, Francis talked and talked. Poppy wasn’t sure how much she understood or even heard but he told her everything he knew about the rocks, or the points in time as he called them. _Each point in time is like a portal. You hold it and it takes you to that point in time._

“It’ll always be the same time.” Francis said, “doesn’t matter what the date or time is in our world but the date and time is always the same through the portals. Incidentally, it was 8:59am when we got here.”

Francis watched Poppy’s face carefully.  
“It’s a lot to take in, honey, I know. Why… Why don’t you take a look outside? See what you think.”  
“O-ok.”

Francis rose from the chair with a modicum of difficulty and made his way to a heavy oak dresser that stood beside the small, single bed. He rifled through the drawers and pulled out a ream of material that Poppy soon realised was a shirt and skirt.

“Are you expecting me to… wear that monstrosity?” Poppy asked, sounding horrified.  
“Well, people don’t wear that in 1899.” Francis retorted, gesturing at Poppy’s black slogan t-shirt (“Made in the 90s”), red stripe sweats and black Vans trainers.

Francis laid the clothes out for her then headed outside to give her some privacy. 

Poppy found herself standing in her underwear in front of the bed, what the hell am I doing? She thought to herself as she struggled into a floor length, olive green A-line skirt and dusty pink shirt with puffy sleeves. There were shoes, too. Black leather, with a medium chunky heel and rounded toe; they came to just above her ankles and took her forever to lace up. They were uncomfortable to walk in and clonked noisily as she walked across the floor to the door to let Francis back in.

He grinned at her, “don’t you look a picture!”  
“You’d better not tell me this is a joke after I put these damn shoes on. How did women wear these?!”  
He laughed and held his arm out for her and they crossed the front of the cabin to the trail beyond. 

There was little to see, just more trees. It was so still and quiet. Poppy was used to cars, to noise, sirens wailing in the background, people talking loudly into their phones.  
It was so still that the sound of hooves along the dirt track startled Poppy and she clung to Francis’s arm. 

“Mornin’ folks!”  
Poppy looked around to see two men trotting past on horses, one chestnut in colour, the other black. The sun filtered through the trees as Poppy turned and stared wide eyes at the two men. They both wore hats that casted shadows across their faces. She could see that one had dark hair, medium length to his shoulders, his beard was bushy. The other also had a beard, not as dark as his friend’s and tied to the back of his horse was a deer carcass.  
“Mornin’ fellers,” Francis replied breezily. 

“A-are we supposed to talk to people?” Poppy whispered, watching the men on horses ride away.  
“Of course. Why wouldn’t you?”  
“I-I don’t know.” Poppy stammered, trying her hardest to walk in the shoes but the heels sunk into the soft ground underfoot with each step. “In all the films, they say you shouldn’t change things - you know, the butterfly effect.”  
“You can’t base everything off of movies, poppet.”  
“Isn’t it true? You can’t change stuff otherwise you might not be born in the future.”  
Francis shrugged a little as he walked them down the hill. “It’s… Kind of right. Try not to change too much. You can’t go and kill Hitler, for instance, even if you think it’s the right thing to do. If you change things too much, you will affect the future and not always for the better.”

They walked in silence again for a few moments while Poppy replayed everything that had been said to her. She looked up at him and said hesitantly, “h-have you been to the future?”  
“Only a couple of times.” Came Francis’s reply.

****

They returned back to the office after spending the day in West Elizabeth.  
Francis told her that the closest town was called Strawberry, it took about an hour to ride there on horseback. Horseback was how people got around back then, he explained. If you couldn’t ride a horse you could take a stagecoach or a train. Poppy had never been a fan of horses, she remembered Francis taking her to a petting zoo when she was younger and a horse had gotten spooked and reared up when Poppy had reached out to pat it. 

Poppy barely spoke the rest of Saturday. Francis spoke but she hadn’t heard it.  
She held the rock in her hand, _it only works in the office,_ Francis had explained to her. Something to do with coordinates. _It will always take you to the log cabin in the woods and always return you to the office._

“Why did you take me?” Poppy finally asked over dinner. She barely ate, too busy thinking about everything that had happened.  
Francis chewed his lip thoughtfully before answering, as if choosing his words carefully. “It’s… A family tradition, I suppose. My parents showed me and now I’m showing you.”  
“Did you show mom?” Poppy asked.  
“No. I never found the right time… And I regret that now.”

Poppy nodded. She thought about her mother and suddenly, a thought crossed her mind. “Grandpa, do you visit mom in the past..?”  
Francis shook his head sadly but he was smiling weakly. “I wanted to, poppet.”  
“Why don’t you?”  
“I haven’t found the right point in time yet. And I fear I won’t… I’m old now, Poppy… I don’t have the energy to go searching anymore.” 

Francis had told her that he had searched for the time points, done most of it in 1899, before huge buildings were put up or railroads built over them, destroying them.

“I spent a long time jumping between different times without coming back to find more points in time but… Well, for years now, I haven’t been able to find more.”  
“Maybe… Maybe I can?” Poppy said thoughtfully. _If she could see her mother again…. Maybe even stop the car crash somehow..?_  
Francis’s eyes smiled, “that would be wonderful, poppet. Why don’t you go back again tomorrow? Just you this time, you don’t need this old fool slowing you down… Go back and see what you think.”  
“Ok, grandpa.”

It wasn’t how she had planned to spend her first day.  
Poppy had woken up early, though to be quite honest, she hadn’t slept all that much. It wasn’t so much the idea of going to Strawberry that kept her awake but rather finding the rock carving and seeing her mom again… 

Francis gave her the book on the frontier, _it’ll come in handy._ He also gave her a leather bound journal. He told her it was where he had written everything down whenever he had gone back to 1899. There were notes on events, the news, the gangs that ran in each area, where to buy certain things and opportunities for money or work. Poppy leafed through the pages.  
_It’ll come in handy._

“Best to leave things like your cell phone here, if you get found with it in 1899, they’ll think you're a spy or an alien or something. Some people can be very kind… Others are quite suspicious.” Francis warned her. 

So Poppy changed into her 1899 outfit in the study then picked up the point in time rock. She felt the room begin to move after a few moments and then the world became a blur. She closed her eyes again as the wind rushed in her ears, only opening them when she was in the cabin again. 

She felt the floor materialise beneath her feet and could smell freshly chopped wood. The cabin looked the same as it had the day before, the table looked like it had just been set.  
There was a clock on the wall that she hadn’t noticed before: 8:59am.

Without Francis, she felt nervous. She clutched the leather journal and tried to remember everything he had told her before she set off.  
_Go to Strawberry, there’s a stable there, get yourself a horse. There’s bears in the area near the cabin so be careful and be careful of time travel sickness! It can make you lightheaded if you’re not used to it…_

She stepped out of the front door, lingering on the threshold.  
“You can always come back, time here will only advanced by an hour. No matter how long you stay, it’s only an hour gone by here.”  
“Why?”  
“I told you, poppet. I don’t know the whys or the hows… Everything I know is in that journal.”

The men on horses went past on the trail, the men they had said hello to the day before.  
_“It goes on like clockwork. Whether you talk to them or not. Whether you intervene or not. It goes on and when you come back, it’ll all happen again. The world keeps turning.”_

Poppy walked to the trail, she had $500 dollars in her bag, Francis had been saving money for her. _Just outside of Strawberry is a stable, go and get yourself a horse. It’s much better than having to walk everywhere._  
Poppy had never ridden a horse but, as Francis pointed out, she had all the time in the world to learn. 

She walked down to the trail, the first thing she wanted to do was get rid of these stupid shoes and get some new ones. When were sneakers invented..? 

If it took an hour on horseback, it took at least three on foot. By the time she reached the small, mountain town, she was exhausted and her feet were blistered to high hell. 

Strawberry itself was breathtakingly pretty, like something Poppy had seen only in movies  
Quaint wooden houses all painted different colours and there was water, like a waterfall or dam. It didn’t look like America at all, more like Austria or Switzerland… She was enchanted. The enchantment stopped abruptly when she walked past the wooden gallows beside the jail, a sombre reminder that this was no fairytale.

It gave Poppy the vibe of one of those reenactment towns that she had visited on a school field trip, only the people weren’t cheerful actors in clean costumes, they were real. Ruddy faced men carried huge sacks of maize from the general store to their wagons. Young women in floor length dresses chatted outside of the hotel. There was a young boy standing on the corner holding up a newspaper calling out: _“Leviticus Cornwall’s train robbed! Van der Linde gang suspected!”_

The air was fresh and clean. Despite its small size, Strawberry felt bustling.  
She made her way to the general store, trying to walk as if she belonged there. The store was a little dark, lined with shelves that were crammed with goods from cigars to tinned pineapples - Poppy didn’t even know they had pineapples back then!

“How can I help ya, miss?” The shopkeeper asked. He was a slender man with dark hair slicked back and a moustache that looked like he spent a lot of time tending to. 

“Umm, do you sell women’s shoes?” Poppy asked, her voice came out higher than usual and wavered a little.  
He looked at her a moment before answering. Poppy’s heart was beating hard in her chest. Did he know there was something wrong about her? Maybe she had said something weirdly. 

“Everythin’s right here in the catalogue, miss.” The shopkeeper said, pushing a thick catalogue towards her. “Women’s clothes are at the back.”

She took the catalogue, aware that her hands shook and flipped through the pages looking at the shoes. She had a choice of five or six styles. She wasn’t particularly in love with any of them but there was a pair of boots that looked to go to her knee, they were tan leather and the heel was a little lower and less clumsy looking. 

“Do you have these?” She asked the shopkeeper.  
“Should do. What size you take?”  
“Usually a seven-” Poppy started then saw the look in the shopkeeper’s eye and knew that was wrong.  
He looked her up and down. “You ain’t from round here, are ya miss?”  
Poppy shook her head, feeling her cheeks burn slightly. The shopkeeper turned his back to her and rifled through some shelves behind him and then plonked the boots on the counter.  
“Try them, they should fit ya.”

She tried them, feeling his eyes on her as she sat on a small stool by the counter. The boots fit and they looked pretty awesome if she did say so herself, like a steampunk cosplay. They were a little roomy but that was better than them being too small and Poppy didn’t fancy asking the shopkeeper for another size.  
Poppy did her best to smile up at him as if she wasn’t worried that the moment she left the shop, he would call the police on her. “I’ll take them.”

“Where you from then?” He asked her as she stood and began to get the money for him.  
“Uhh…” She started, “N-New York.” She stammered. Why was she so worried? That wasn’t a lie. “I’m staying with some family not far from here.” That wasn’t too much of a stretch of the truth either…  
The shopkeeper nodded, as if accepting this as the truth. She paid up. She asked where the stables were and he gave her directions. He bid her a good day and she left.

She felt a small swell of pride in her chest. It hadn’t gone as badly as it could have; he certainly didn’t know she had come from 120 years in the future. Although, she supposed as she walked through Strawberry, that none of these people would ever suspect that she was a time traveller - it’s not the first thing to spring to people’s minds...

Before she knew it, she had walked square into someone.  
“Holy shit!” Poppy exclaimed. She ricocheted off of the man’s chest but she felt a pair of strong hands grab her by the forearms to stop her from falling.

“I am many things miss, but I ain’t holy.” Said the man in a low almost growl. Poppy looked up at him. Piercing blue eyes returned her gaze, straggly straw like hair framed his ugly face.  
Poppy’s eyes widened and she shrunk away from the man.  
Beside him, another man pushed his hands off of her.  
“Micah, leave her alone, Dutch is expectin’ us back!” He said sounding urgent, his voice hushed. The second man was younger, darker skinned with hazel eyes that seemed to shimmer in the afternoon sunlight, “sorry, miss.”  
The man called Micah relinquished his grip and Poppy hurried away. She heard him turn to the younger man and say, “you worry too much, kid.”

She walked quickly to the stables where she spoke to the stablemaster. She asked him which horse would be best for someone who was learning to ride. The stablemaster, much like the shopkeeper, looked Poppy up and down before answering.

“You ain’t from round here, are ya?”  
That seemed to be the catchphrase of the day. 

Poppy pursed her lips briefly before answering, this time with ease, “no. I’m from New York. I’m staying with family.”  
The stablemaster nodded, accepting her story just like the shopkeeper had. The stablemaster proceeded to show her a horse, a Kentucky Saddler he said.  
“He’s easy goin’ and not that hard to take care of… But he ain’t the fastest. You won’t be winnin’ no races on him.”

He was a silverish grey, stocky little horse with a black mane. He made a small noise as Poppy approached him cautiously. “I think he likes ya,” the stablemaster said to her.  
Poppy smiled as she tentatively reached for the horse’s muzzle and stroked him. He was soft and warm, he closed his eyes at her touch.  
“I’ll take him.” 

The stablemaster must have taken pity on Poppy because he then spent the next hour or so showing her how to properly saddle her new horse up, teaching her how to mount the horse and how to get the horse to move. Legs inwards, don’t squeeze the horse too tight, keep the reins loose and squeeze the horse to make him walk onwards.

“You take care of your horse, miss and he’ll take care of you. Come back soon!”

Poppy squeezed and the horse walked forwards. Slowly, the horse trotted back to Francis’s cabin. The stablemaster had taught her to balance and how to get the horse to turn and he was fine for the first fifteen minutes or so until he stopped responding and came to a halt on the trail out of Strawberry.

“Come on boy,” Poppy said, petting his neck gently, “what’s wrong? Let’s go.”  
The horse didn’t move. Poppy squeezed her legs again against the horse’s sides but he didn’t move.  
“For fuck sake.” She muttered under her breath. She foraged around in her bag looking for the sugar cubes she’d bought from the stable. She could hear hooves approaching from ahead but paid little attention.  
“Come on,” she repeated, digging her heels in a little this time but the horse stomped and snorted. “Come on! Stupid horse!”

Poppy’s horse began to buck and whinney. The horse approaching them on the trail seemed to spook Poppy’s horse. His bucking became more erratic, Poppy pulled on the reins and squeezed harder with her legs instinctively but that seemed to be the wrong thing to do.  
The horse reared onto his back legs and Poppy couldn’t hold on any more. Before she knew it, she was lying flat on her back. She hit her head with a sickening thud. Everything hurt. 

She laughed to herself, _take care of your horse and your horse will take care of you. Sure._ She thought before the world went black.

“Miss? Hello? Miss, can you hear me? Miss?”  
Poppy groaned. Where was she? She couldn’t remember.  
“Are you… Are you okay, miss?”  
Her eyelids fluttered but she couldn’t make anything out. The silhouette of a man over her. She could hear a man talking. He spoke with a southern accent but she couldn’t place it. His voice was low, gravelly and raspy.  
“Miss..? Ah! Goddamn it…” 

She felt strong arms around her. She was lifted . She felt her head loll and her eyes closed again. The world was spinning faster and faster. She thought she might be sick.  
“You’ll be alright, miss.” The gruff voiced stranger said to her. 

She slipped in and out of a strange sleep where she dreamed about Francis, the points in time and tall conifer trees. Occasionally, she woke, she was in motion. She could feel warmth on her face from what she could only assume was the sun. She could hear horse’s hooves and a gentle singing but she couldn’t make out any words.  
She moaned a little, trying to speak but she didn’t know what she wanted to say.  
“Easy now,” the man cooed, “shh… You’re alright girl.”  
The sun on the inside of her eyelids and the man’s soothing words put her at ease and Poppy slept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments, kudos and feedback always appreciated!  
> 


	3. Bad Beat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _She was used to not fitting in, used to not having a place. Why did she think a one hundred year old cowboy would think any different?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I'm sorry for the delay in this. Thank you to those of you who waited so patiently and encouraged me to continue *^^*

“Dutch said no more passengers, Mr Morgan!”  
“She ain’t a passenger! She was hurt. You’d be happy for me to leave her in the middle of the road like that? Anyone could have come and done lord knows what to her!”  
“Since when did you have a heart?”  
“Since when did you not have one, Miss Grimshaw?”  
“Fine… She can stay the night. Just _one_ night. You take her back where she came from first thing in the morning, y’hear?”  
“Yes, ma’am.”

Poppy stirred. She awoke to the sound of chattering, plates and cutlery being scraped. She could hear chickens squawking, birds singing and crickets chirping. 

“Mr. Marston, will you clean yourself up!” A woman was shouting, “you’re absolutely filthy!”  
Poppy heard something that sounded very much like someone being dunked head first into a bucket of water. There was laughter. 

Poppy sat up, her eyes adjusting to the darkness that now surrounded her. What time was it? How long had she been here, wherever here was?  
She shivered. She was in a large camp of some sorts… She could see a campfire a little ahead of her with a couple of people sitting around it but she couldn't quite make out their features. Her head hurt.

To the left of her was another tent, this one looked larger than the one she was sitting in, or under rather; hers was more like a lean-to with a canvas roof but no actual sides or front for privacy.  
A man was standing outside of the larger tent smoking a cigar; he was watching her. He startled Poppy who instinctively drew the bedsheet up and over her body despite being fully clothed. He was tall and dressed head to toe in black. His hair was black too, wavy but slicked back. His dark eyes met hers, darker than the sky above them. His mere presence commanded attention. Her heart fluttered nervously.  
He looked away from her nonchalantly exhaling smoke, “Arthur, your guest has awoken,” he called.

A few seconds later, another man appeared. He came over to the small camping bed that Poppy was sitting up in. 

“Hey, you’re awake.”  
Poppy recognised that voice, that soft yet gruff voice that had sung gently while she slept on the back of a horse…

“How you feelin’?” He asked as he pulled up a folding chair and sat down beside her.  
Poppy looked at him properly. He looked like something from a western film, the sort Francis liked so much. He wore a light blue button up shirt, the top few buttons of which were open and some dark denim jeans tucked into worn cowboy boots - he even wore spurs. His hat gave her a Clint Eastwood vibe, casting a shadow across his face. He took it off as he spoke to her, letting his sandy blond hair fall into his bright eyes. Poppy was struck by how handsome he was. He was tall and broad. His eyes shimmered a dazzling blue. When Poppy thought of cowboys, someone like him didn't exactly spring to mind…

Poppy swallowed nervously. She was trying to remember how she had gotten there. She remembered him singing and telling her that it was going to be alright… But why?  
Her eyes widened, she remembered going to Strawberry and going to the general store… Then she went to the stables. That _stupid_ horse had bucked her off!  
“W-where am I?” She stammered.  
“It’s ok. You’re safe here, miss.”  
“My horse…” She started, instinctively reaching to the back of her head where she had hit the ground.  
“You took quite a fall,” the man said to her, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips, “saw the whole thing.”  
“Oh no…” Poppy said quietly to herself, “I only just bought him, too.”  
“Don’t worry, miss. I was able to get him back, I brought him with us.” The man gestured to where he had just come from and Poppy looked over to see the stocky little horse tied up with a bunch of other horses.

Poppy smiled weakly at the man, “thank you for taking care of me.” She said, remembering what Francis had said about some people being kind, this man must have been one of those people. “What was your name?”  
“Arthur,” he said, “Arthur Morgan. And you, miss?”  
“Poppy Sinclair.”  
“Poppy? That’s an…. Interesting name.”  
She wondered whether she should have used a different name. Did it really matter? Maybe Poppy wasn’t a common name in 1899 but it couldn’t be _that_ unusual.  
“Sorry.” Arthur mumbled, looking at Poppy’s face. She wondered whether her expression gave her away or not.

"You must be hungry." Arthur said to her. His voice was low and rough but somehow gentle at the same time. He rose from where he sat and strode across the camp. Poppy could just make out a small fire and a pot over it which she presumed was cooking something. Poppy watched Arthur exchange words with an older and rounder gentleman who looked a little dirty and greasy. 

When Arthur returned he held a bowl of what looked like stew with potatoes, carrots and other vegetables. She was hungry, she hadn't eaten since before she left her house for 1899.  
She took a spoonful and ate. It was flavourless and watery, not too dissimilar to her own cooking. Her nose wrinkled and Arthur couldn’t suppress his laughter.  
“I’m afraid it ain’t no gourmet meal but it’s the best we can do here, Miss Sinclair.”  
There was something odd yet kind of nice about how he called her that.

“Where am I?” Poppy asked after she politely ate one spoonful more and then set the bowl down.  
“Horseshoe Overlook,” Arthur replied. As soon as she said it, she realised that she had no clue where that was or why she’d even asked in the first place. She only knew Francis’s cabin and Strawberry.  
“Is it far to go back to where you found me?” She asked Arthur.  
“It’ll take a couple o’ hours.” Arthur replied, his voice drawled over the words like honey, “it’s probably best you wait til mornin’, miss. It’ll be dangerous to go now.”

Poppy nodded, aware that his gaze was unwavering. She looked away, feeling herself blush like something out of Francis’s crappy Netflix dramas. She looked to the table by the side of the camping bed where there was a book, a pressed flower and a photograph. Poppy studied the black and white photograph, it was of a young woman with her hair up in a braid, she had soft features and kind eyes.

“Is she your wife?” Poppy asked. There were probably more subtle ways to find out if Arthur Morgan was single but Poppy somehow didn’t care so much here, it was almost as if life here wasn’t real and consequences didn’t exist.  
Arthur shook his head, a hint of a smile still on his lips. “My mother.”  
“She’s pretty.”  
Arthur nodded, “she was that.” He saw the expression on Poppy’s face and continued, “she passed away when I was real young. I don’t remember her well.”  
“My mom passed away when I was a kid, too.” She said. “In a ca-” She stopped herself, a flash of panic crossing her dark eyes like lightning. _Car crash_ she was about to say but caught herself just in time. Arthur looked puzzled, his brow furrowed. “In an accident. An accident.” Poppy stammered.

A minute or two passed before either of them spoke again. Poppy had made it awkward, she was used to that. She often felt like she was a conversation killer, either saying too much or too little and none of it all that engaging. She had always hated that about herself.

“Where you from, miss? If you don't mind me askin’...”  
“Is it that obvious that I’m not from round here?” Poppy asked with a sigh. She supposed she had a lot to learn. She couldn’t afford to slip up so carelessly like that.  
Arthur laughed. “Just a little.”  
His laugh made her lips curl into a smile, too. He didn’t sound accusative in his question, not like the shopkeeper or the stablemaster.  
“I’m from Buffalo, New York.”  
“That’s a change from here. I hear Buffalo’s a real city now.”  
“A million miles away from Strawberry,” Poppy agreed, thinking of home.  
“Is that where you’re stayin’?”  
“Well, a little further out. My grandpa has a cabin and I’m staying there for now.”  
Arthur nodded. “Well you’re more than welcome to stay the night here, Miss Sinclair. In the morning I’ll escort you back.”  
“That’s very kind of you, Mr Morgan.” She felt herself blush as she said his name like that.  
He continued to smile, “eat up.” He told her.

Arthur sat down heavily on the ground at the foot of the bed, saying something about getting some rest. He put his hat over his face and after a while he must have fallen asleep because Poppy could hear him breathing a little heavier.  
Poppy slipped out of the bed and looked tentatively around the camp. It must have been very late because it was so dark, Poppy had never known darkness like it. When she looked up at the sky, she could see stars and the milky way stretching out and swirling above her, glorious red and violets all blending into one incredible watercolour that she just would never see in Buffalo. 

“Beautiful, ain’t it?” A voice from behind her said.  
Poppy started. The voice belonged to another man who stood before her. He was leaner than Arthur, a good few inches shorter and older too, if Poppy had to guess, maybe fifty or so. He, like Arthur, wore a hat that hid the majority of his face but she could see dark eyes peering out at her. He was well dressed in a mustard coloured vest over a light shirt, a thick blue jacket with fur trim over the top of that. His pants were also tucked into his boots; his boots were flashier than Arthur’s with a design embossed into them.

“I didn’t mean to startle you, miss.” He said gently. There was something about this man, he wasn’t intimidating like the man in black but this man was different, his presence was formidable. Poppy shifted awkwardly. “I hope Arthur took good care of you, heard you took a nasty tumble from yer horse.”  
Poppy nodded. “I guess I’m lucky he was passing.”  
It was the man’s turn to nod. “Why don’t you join me - do you play poker, miss?”  
Poppy nodded again, “my grandpa taught me.”  
Hosea smiled fondly and ushered Poppy across the camp, past the fire where two men were sitting - drinking and singing drunkenly, past the back of the man in black’s tent and towards a table.  
“Susan!” The man called, “you’ll play poker with us, won’t ya?”  
“Only if you’re ready to lose, Mr Matthews,” came the woman’s reply. 

It was surreal in every sense. Right now it was May 30th 1899 and Poppy was sitting around a table lit by an oil lamp playing poker with two people who didn’t even exist in her lifetime. But also, right now Francis was at home in their little house in Buffalo New York and it was still around 9am; Francis would be reading his newspaper or watering the plants. She knew it was real despite everything telling her it couldn’t be but it didn’t stop her from wondering if someone was about to laugh and tell her it was all an elaborate hoax.

Susan was about as old as Mr Matthews, around fifty or so. Her dark hair was tied up in a matronly bun and she had a stern look about her face.  
Francis had taught Poppy to play poker when she was a lot younger one night when a thunderstorm had caused a power outage. Francis regretted his decision to teach Poppy when she soon turned out to be quite the natural and rinsed him for all his loose change. They compromised and only played for candy these days.

Susan won the first few hands. She had a good poker face. Mr Matthew’s hat hid his face so Poppy couldn’t see his tell. Susan’s was more obvious to her, Susan’s lips became a little tighter but she made more eye contact, avoiding looking at her cards.  
Poppy went all in on the next time she noticed Susan doing that, winning on a bluff. Susan had gone all in too and huffed, “beaten by a child!”  
Mr Matthews had laughed. “Maybe y’ll win it back.”  
She didn’t. Poppy went on to beat the both of them, only stopping when Mr Matthews commented that it was getting light.

Susan left the table in a quiet rage, muttering something about cleaning up.  
“Are you all family?” Poppy asked Mr Matthews naively.  
Mr Matthews stifled a laugh, “somethin’ like that miss.”  
It was fairly obvious that they weren’t but aside from a travelling circus, Poppy had never seen such a large number of people all camping together in such a manner. 

Mr Matthews got to his feet and walked away from the table, he coughed as he walked. It struck Poppy that despite him being younger than Francis by at least twenty years, he didn’t look that well. Poppy wondered what the life expectancy was in 1899…  
Poppy was left to pick up her winnings, the grand total of $3.90.

The sun was rising and the camp was coming to life with more and more people appearing from tents that Poppy hadn’t even noticed under the cover of night.  
She saw three women standing by the large pot that Arthur had taken her stew from last night; they all wore floor length dresses and held tin cups full of what Poppy could smell to be coffee. She noticed a young boy sitting at the feet of one woman, he couldn’t have been older than four or five years old. Poppy noticed that the three women were glaring at her.  
She quickly walked past them, only to see the man in black rounding the corner, another cigar in his mouth.  
He had removed his black jacket this morning, like Mr Matthews, he wore a black vest but his was adorned with intricate golden jewelry and chains, the back of the vest was red satin cinching his waist giving him the sort of figure Poppy had never seen on a man before. He wore a crisp white shirt beneath it, the sleeves rolled up. In his hand, he carried a book. Poppy caught his eye but quickly looked away, that feeling of unease yet excitement returned to her and she didn’t know why.  
She swore she saw him smirk from the corner of her eye but didn’t dare look back at him.

Poppy made her way to where the horses were hitched up a little out of the way of the bustle of the main camp. She went to her own horse and patted him carefully.  
“Listen,” she said quietly to the horse, “I’m not saying I forgive you for what you did but I need you to get me back to grandpa’s cabin in one piece, ok?”  
The horse snorted and dug at the ground. Poppy sighed.  
From where she stood, she could see another man, taller than the man in black, taller than Arthur standing facing out. He had what looked like a shotgun slung over his shoulder. Maybe he had sensed her there because he turned to look at her. 

Once again, he wore a hat that hid the majority of his face. The face that was exposed was covered by a large, thick beard. She couldn’t see his eyes but she knew they weren’t kind. He didn’t dress like Mr Matthews or the man in black, he wore a stained check shirt tucked into light wash jeans that were patched in places. Over the top of that he wore a long brown leather jacket that had seen better days.  
“What you lookin’ at girl?” He said menacingly. He moved towards her a little. Poppy couldn’t find the words to say anything so just shook her head dumbly. 

“You takin’ off without me, Miss Sinclair?”

Arthur’s voice was music to her ears. Poppy turned her back on the man with the shotgun who grumbled and walked away. She smiled at Arthur who wore the same as yesterday only this time he had a satchel slung across him.  
“I’ll escort you back, make sure you don’t go bumpin’ your head again.”  
Poppy couldn’t stop herself smiling in his presence. 

She mounted up the way the stablehand had shown her and followed Arthur out of the camp onto a trail that took them down towards a river.  
Arthur’s horse was bigger than hers, it’s silver coat seemed to sparkle in the balmy morning sunlight. Poppy struggled to keep up with Arthur, just one swift kick and his horse had set off at a pace that made him nothing but a speck in the distance. He soon realised this, coming back for her.  
Poppy’s ears burned, “I ugh… I’m kinda new to this whole riding thing.”  
“I figured that out,” Arthur laughed. He dug around in one of the satchels that hung from his horse’s saddle and pulled out a rope. With the rope, he tethered Poppy’s horse to his own. “This should help, your horse’ll keep up with mine this way.”

Arthur was right, Poppy’s horse matched Arthur’s speed. Poppy found that she didn’t have to squeeze or steer as the horse almost knew where it was going. She held the reins tight however, not used to moving so fast on anything that didn’t have an engine. 

The scenery was breathtaking, large cliffs overlooked the river with greenery, woods and wild animals on every side. Rabbits and deer darted out in front of them without giving them a second thought. She could hear birds singing and elk calling from the top of the hills. She’d never experienced anything like it. The air tasted fresh and pure. The rushing water of the river looked clear and clean. By the trail, grass and flowers were allowed to just grow wild.  
Arthur chuckled, “how’s it compare to Buffalo?”  
“It’s so pretty,” Poppy said.  
“Ain’t it just.”

Poppy didn’t mind the silence as they followed the trail along the river. She felt aware that Arthur was watching her, though. She looked up shyly and caught Arthur’s eye.  
He blushed slightly, “I’m sorry, miss.” He said, “I just.. I just ain’t ever met someone who looks like you before.” 

As a biracial woman she was used to people looking at her - trying to work out what she was, like a puzzle rather than a person.  
At first glance, she could be caucasian. While her skin was a little dark and it could be construed as a tan but her flat nose and slightly slanted and curved eyes were unmistakably Asian, her hair was wavy and naturally had flecks of red running through that shone in the sunlight. 

Poppy was used to people not knowing how to talk to her or which box to put her in. She was used to being referred to as “exotic”, used to being asked _“yeah, but where are you really from?”_  
She’d had people say very loudly and slowly that her English was “very, very good!” despite it being her mother tongue. She was used to people dismissing both sides of her heritage because it made them uncomfortable. She was too Asian for her white friends but too white for her Asian friends.  
She remembered the time she had been forced to show her ID when she went to see Francis in hospital when he had a stroke a year ago because the nurses didn't believe she was his family. 

She was used to not fitting in, used to not having a place. Why did she think a one hundred year old cowboy would think any different?

“I’m sorry, miss. I didn’t mean to offend.” Arthur said sounding embarrassed.  
“It’s ok.” Poppy replied automatically, a standard response. She supposed, for a moment, that Arthur wasn’t used to seeing East Asians. She knew Chinese people began immigrating around this time, used for labour mainly, probably not that prominent out in the west, more of a big city thing...

Poppy’s mind was wrenched from the subject as the horses began to cross the river. Her horse, despite being tethered to Arthur’s stopped dead in its tracks, refusing to cross.  
“Come on,” Poppy said encouragingly but the horse didn’t move. “Come on! Stupid horse!”

“Don't blame the horse, miss, he's a lil skittish but he's young and he'll learn, you gotta take care of him. Horses are clever, they know if ya don't like ‘em. He can probably sense that you ain't the best rider yet.”  
Arthur dismounted his own horse and untethered Poppy’s. Arthur took the reins and began to walk the horse with Poppy still mounted across the river.  
“Won’t your clothes get wet?” Poppy asked.  
Arthur chuckled, Poppy could see his handsome smile from under the brim of his hat as he looked away from her, “you’re a strange one, Miss Sinclair.” 

They rode back through Strawberry and to Francis’s cabin without saying much. Arthur didn’t seem to be a man of words, which was fine because Poppy wasn’t much of a conversationalist either. It didn’t mean that she didn’t have a million questions but didn’t know whether to ask or whether even she should. 

“This it?” Arthur asked when the trail wound around, up the hill and the cabin was visible.  
Poppy nodded. “Thank you for taking me back, I’d have definitely got lost without you.”  
“Don’t mention it.”  
There was a moment where neither of them spoke again, Poppy found herself looking at Arthur, almost not wanting him to go for some stupid reason. _He’s a one hundred year old cowboy who doesn’t exist in your lifetime, stop being so stupid._

She guided the horse to the cabin and hitched him up outside. Poppy found herself turning to watch Arthur leave.  
Arthur tipped his hat, “goodbye, Miss Sinclair.”  
"Goodbye, Mr Morgan."

*****

Poppy felt a slight sadness as she sat in the cabin. It was nice to be around people, especially handsome people like Arthur… She hadn’t had a crush since college but she told herself that she couldn’t afford to let her head be turned by every pretty cowboy out there… Though she doubted she’d see someone like Arthur again any time soon. 

She pulled out Francis’s journal and flipped through it aimlessly. Tucked into the back of it was a map which Poppy pulled out and spread across the table. It looked familiar yet unfamiliar at the same time. Poppy looked around and found a pen and scoured the map until she found Horseshoe Overlook. She marked it with an _A_. She looked at it for a while before reading the rest.  
To the north of the cabin, there didn’t seem to be much. Not too far away was what looked like a town called Blackwater. On the back of the map, Francis had made notes.

_Blackwater: a well built up town. Good for shopping- general store, saloon, barbers, tailors, gunsmith and even a movie theatre._

She was interested in seeing what a movie theatre looked like in 1899. She spent the rest of the day studying the journal, reading about the different places to visit, some of the funny encounters that Francis wrote about that he’d had with people he'd come across and even about some of the gangs that ran in certain areas. That evening, in the kitchen cupboard she found some canned food and Poppy made a dinner consisting of corned beef and canned vegetables. She fell asleep on the bed not long after the sun went down.

The next day Poppy took her horse to Blackwater, thinking she could practice her riding. On the map, Blackwater looked a lot closer than it turned out to be. Poppy’s horse still struggled to cross the river that separated Strawberry from Great Plains meaning that Poppy had to get down off of her horse and guide him across like Arthur had. Her feet were wet and her boots squelched afterwards.  
Luckily, it was hot the closer she got to Blackwater so her feet were soon dry again. The greenery and picturesqueness of Strawberry disappeared and she understood why it was called Great Plains, there was nothing but the yellow and orange of sandy terrain as far as the eye could see. It was dry and dusty, the plants were all dead or dying. 

Once across from the river, it wasn’t too far to Blackwater but the evening was beginning to draw in fast. Blackwater was a busy port town, instead of the wooden buildings in Strawberry, Blackwater’s buildings were made of brick and the floor was paved with bricks, too so her horse made a jaunty clip-clop sound compared to the dull thud of mud under his hooves as he walked. 

The building fronts were painted bright colours: eye catching reds and greens. The people in Blackwater were different from the ones in Strawberry, too; they wore fancier clothes, most men in three piece suits, some wearing top hats and carrying canes and the women’s dresses were brighter colours - vivid pinks and powder blues - than their counterparts in Strawberry. 

Poppy felt, as usual, out of place as she hitched her horse up and walked up and down the streets, almost in awe of the European style architecture of the banks and the town hall.  
Her stomach grumbled and she made her way to the saloon where she could smell cooking. It smelled much more appetising than the stew from Arthur’s camp the day before. Inside the saloon wasn’t that busy yet, just a few men sitting around a table towards the back of the saloon playing cards.  
“Do you sell food?” Poppy asked the bartender, a tall pale man with thick black mustache.  
“Well of course we do, miss.” Came his reply. He handed her a small paper menu consisting of just two dishes: peach cobbler or prairie chicken. Poppy opted for the chicken.

She had the same conversation with the bartender as she had with the shopkeeper and the stable master in Strawberry. _”You’re not from round here, are ya, miss?”_ The bartender had asked.  
Poppy shook her head and told him she was staying with family near Strawberry.  
“That’s a long way to go back tonight, miss,” the bartender told her as he dried glasses behind the bar, “will you be stayin’ with us?”  
Poppy hadn’t thought about that. Arthur had said it was dangerous at night and if a big, tough cowboy like him thought so, then she probably shouldn’t be trying to ride back to the cabin.

“It’s a dollar for the night.” The barman told her, pointing to a list of services on the wall. Poppy followed his finger but was distracted by a poster that hung beside the service list. A wanted poster with a crude drawing of a man on it that Poppy recognised: _WANTED DEAD OR ALIVE: ARTHUR MORGAN._


	4. Of Cowboys and Outlaws

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Poppy wasn’t there to fall in love with a cowboy. She had to find the carvings, that was what Francis had entrusted her to do and that’s what she would do.

_**WANTED DEAD OR ALIVE: ARTHUR MORGAN.**_

_For his part of a robbery of nearly $150,000 in banknotes from a ferry in Blackwater and multiple associated counts of muder.  
He is a known associate of Dutch van der Linde of the dangerous Van der Linde gang whose members are wanted for various train and bank robberies across the country.  
Morgan is in his mid thirties, around six feet in height with light hair, Morgan was last seen escaping into the Grizzlies from Big Valley, West Elizabeth._

Poppy felt a horrible wave of hot sickness crash over her. The drawing was no Rembrandt but Poppy recognised the handsome outlaw that looked back at her to be her Arthur from the previous day. Poppy had seen the movies, knew about cowboys and outlaws but for some reason it hadn’t crossed her mind that she would see any, let alone meet them… Or be carried on the back of their horse to their camp...

“Here ya go!”

Poppy started as the bartender put the plate of prairie chicken in front of her with a loud clunk. She had suddenly lost her appetite. She took the plate away from the bar, not feeling like small talk with the bartender anymore and seated herself at a small table not too far from the men playing cards. But she could still see Arthur Morgan’s bounty poster; it felt like his eyes were boring a hole right in her head.  
She tried to take her mind off of it by looking around at the wood paneled walls, looking at the paintings on them or the various taxidermied animals but they all looked the same to her and she couldn’t focus.

Wanted for murder? It didn’t seem right. He was _so kind._ He’d helped her! She’d been thrown from her horse and knocked unconscious - he could have left her there, he could have even robbed her, after all her bag was stuffed full of dollar bills…. But he didn’t. He lifted her and spoke to her softly, telling her that she would be ok and sang to himself while they rode to Horseshoe Overlook. Does a murderer do that? Poppy didn’t know. But that didn’t stop her remembering his strong arms lifting her off of the floor and saying gently, _“you’ll be alright, miss.”_

The prairie chicken would have been lovely, it was roasted and moist with thick flavourful gravy and crispy roast potatoes but Poppy could only pick at it with her fork, taking small mouthfuls because the bartender was watching her expectantly. She gave him a forced smile which seemed to satisfy him as he went back to cleaning glasses and arranging them behind the bar.  
As night fell, the saloon began to get busier and the bartender became too busy for her. The saloon was now filled with chatter and laughter but it felt like it was a hundred miles away, she couldn’t hear a word anyone said around her, all she could hear was Arthur’s gentle humming. 

After eating what she could, Poppy played a round of poker with the men at the back of the saloon. She’d never really thought about poker much before, it was just something that her and Francis did. It was their thing. She’d played a little bit in college but her friends got annoyed when she won most of the time.  
She felt a little awkward sitting down at the table but Francis had only given her $500 and she realised that it probably wouldn’t last forever - she had already spent around $100 on her horse and her new shoes. The food at the saloon and the room only came to $4 but it would all start to add up, she had learned that much from her days in college when she juggled two jobs but still couldn’t make ends meet…

The men chuckled when she sat down with them, “a lady playin’ poker? Well I surely think I seen everythin’ now.” One said.  
Poppy smiled sweetly. “I’m feelin’ lucky tonight.” She liked sounding like she was in a bad spaghetti western movie.

The men weren't laughing when Poppy cleaned them out for a total of $56. She then promptly stood from the table and bid the flabbergasted men goodnight.  
She went upstairs in the saloon where the bedrooms and the bathroom were. The bartender had mentioned the bathroom facilities to her earlier. She had noticed at Francis’s cabin that there was no bathroom, just an outhouse for a toilet but she had no idea where she had to go to get clean… Poppy supposed this was how people did things back then. Or now? Things were getting confusing. Either way, she didn’t know when she’d next be able to bathe - would she have to come to Blackwater every time she wanted a bath?!

The bathroom was just that, a room with a large freestanding tub in the centre of it and a roaring fire in the hearth. The bartender had sent someone up to fill the tub for her while she’d been playing cards. The water was hot, just how she liked it and she sighed as she sank down into the bubbles and closed her eyes. It felt good - her back hurt from horse riding and her feet hurt from her new shoes, used to sneakers.  
She saw Arthur’s bright blue-green looking back at hers; she kept her eyes closed for a few moments longer, replaying him tipping his hat to her as he left her outside of Francis’s cabin.  
_“Goodbye, Miss Sinclair.”_

She sat up, eyes opened again and began to scrub at her arms and legs that had become dirty with the dust that kicked up from the trail. She felt stupid for staring back into Arthur Morgan, outlaw and wanted killer’s eyes and for thinking that he was handsome and for not wanting him to leave yesterday.  
Poppy wasn’t there to fall in love with a cowboy. She had to find the carvings, that was what Francis had entrusted her to do and that’s what she would do. 

She stepped out of the bath after her fingers started to go pruney and wrapped herself in the towel provided. It was fluffy and had been kept warm by the fire.  
In the room she’d ordered, she towel dried her hair whilst checking out the decor. The room came with a wardrobe, dresser and a full length mirror. There were paintings hanging on the walls just like downstairs, some of them showed Blackwater before it became built up and was a small settlement.  
She caught sight of herself in the mirror and groaned. Her hair was naturally wavy, sometimes frizzy depending on the humidity - it wasn’t sleek and straight like a stereotypical Korean girl’s. She supposed it had to do with her mother’s wavy hair. The mixture of straight and wavy had produced… whatever the hell her hair was trying to do. She brushed it out with her fingers for lack of a brush and made a mental note to see if she could buy a hair tie somewhere. 

She found the room was much more comfortable than the cabin and she wondered whether she could just stay here instead because the bed was so soft that she had drifted off to sleep before she could even think of anything else.

****

The next day Poppy got up early. She wasn’t much of an early bird, usually sleeping in if she didn’t have to work but the windows of the room were thin and Poppy could hear the bustling street below - wagons and carriages running up and down the cobbled street and people shouting.

Poppy smoothed her unruly hair down the best she could and dressed, herself tucking her shirt into the skirt and lacing her boots up before going downstairs into the saloon. The bartender was already there, wiping tables down. He stood up straight when he saw her.  
“Did you sleep well, miss? I hope the room was to your liking.”  
“It’s great. Thank you.”  
“Can I tempt you with some breakfast?” He asked her eagerly. “We got ham and egg sandwich or oatmeal if you would prefer?”  
She declined politely, guessing that there were no ice lattes in 1899, and went out into Blackwater. 

The town was prettier in daylight. She walked down towards the port and looked out across the water. For a while she watched the canoes and steam boats going past and some people who were across the water fishing.  
_“It goes on like clockwork. Whether you talk to them or not. Whether you intervene or not. It goes on and when you come back, it’ll all happen again. The world keeps turning.”_  
That’s what Francis had said. She wished he had come back with her, at least he would be able to help her figure out stuff and distract her from outlaws. 

Poppy floated around Blackwater most of the morning; she looked at the town hall, almost wishing she had her cell on her to take a photo. Now she thought about it, she hadn’t even missed not having her cell with her; sure it had only been a couple of days and for the majority of one of those days she’d been unconscious… But in her daily life, she spent a lot of time on social media, scrolling Facebook or Instagram, comparing herself to her friends from high school or college, measuring her worth by their achievements. Many of her friends were engaged or married already, some had children and houses of their own… Well, she doubted any of them had ever traveled back in time over one hundred years.

Poppy stopped to look in the window of the tailors, wondering whether they sold pants at all. Her skirt, while long, felt impractical and heavy. She decided that maybe she could reward herself with pants once she found a point in time or maybe after she won some more poker games…  
Further up the street, Poppy stopped outside of the sheriff’s office. Arthur’s poster was pinned up outside nestled between two other posters, ones with similar wording but different drawings - one for Dutch van der Linde who Poppy recognised as the man in black. He turned out to be the leader of the gang. Another poster for Hosea Matthews, who she had played poker with.

She drew closer to read the posters. She found herself looking into the black, clumsily drawn eyes of Dutch van der Linde. _Leader of the ruthless Van der Linde gang, responsible for numerous train and bank robberies across the western states. A charismatic, manipulative individual believed to harbour subversive, anti-American ideals._

“Y’thinkin’ of catchin’ yourself some outlaws, miss?”  
The voice was so close to her and made Poppy start. The sheriff had come out of his office and he stood before Poppy, not much taller than her, an older man with a large, grey moustache and kind, blue eyes.  
“Oh, no… I …” Poppy stammered, “I was just looking.”  
The sheriff smiled, “I’m jokin’, miss. But they’re some bad men. If you come across ‘em, you should keep well away. You come see me and let the law deal with them.”  
Poppy nodded. The sheriff tipped his hat at her and walked past Poppy, down the street and towards the town hall. 

Poppy watched after him for a moment. Was Arthur really a bad man?

“I know that feller.”  
Poppy turned at the new voice, it belonged to a skinny looking man with dark hair slicked back and bright eyes. He seemed to be constantly moving, like he was high. Poppy instinctively backed away from him a little.  
“That feller,” the man repeated, pointing at Arthur’s bounty poster which sat between Dutch and Hosea’s on the wooden board outside the sheriff’s office.  
“You… Know him?” Poppy asked in spite of herself.  
“Well… I don’t _know_ him. Ran into him over in Valentine. I said to him, I said: _I recognise you! Weren’t you one of the fellers they’re lookin’ for in Blackwater?_ Oh, he didn’t like that one bit! Chased me down, he did!” The man’s eyes darted around as he spoke, as if fearing Arthur might appear out of thin air beside him. It made Poppy feel nervous. “Then, the strangest thing happened… He done went and saved my life.”  
“He… he did?”  
The man nodded, “sure did! Could’a left me but he didn’t. I gave him my pen as a thank you - one of them steel ones! Now I don’t know ‘bout no ferry but he’s a good man in my eyes.”

“Jimmy Brooks!” A woman’s voice pierced through their conversation. “What have I told you about talking to strange women?!”  
Jimmy shot the woman a worried glance, “coming dear!” Poppy watched as Jimmy was led away quickly by who she assumed was his wife. 

Arthur saved Jimmy's life, huh? He saved her too. Maybe the posters were wrong? She didn’t know. Poppy found herself thinking again that Arthur didn’t look like a murderer but then what did a murderer look like?

Poppy had gone to Blackwater as a tourist, a time tourist perhaps; she had been curious about the movie theatre but found it closed when she got there. She sighed and decided that this was probably time to go back to Francis’s cabin. With bounty posters plastered over most walls, Blackwater didn’t seem so fun anymore. 

Poppy’s bad mood dissipated as she rode back to Strawberry, she was struck by how _friendly_ people were. When she rode by most people, they would tip their hat and say _”have yourself a fine day, miss,”_ or similar words.  
People in Buffalo didn’t talk to you in the street, not that Poppy would have wanted them to. It seemed so alien to speak to strangers, even just to greet them. Her world was different in every little way and Poppy was beginning to see why Francis said that 1899 always seemed to call him back.

She focused on the beautiful vista, how the terracotta sky stretched out endlessly before her and her horse. She watched birds as big as dogs glide elegantly above her, as if they were on ice rather than in the air. Riding was becoming a little easier, maybe it was muscle memory like a bike? She found it that her horse listened to her more... But he still wouldn’t cross water. She supposed she’d have plenty of time to master the art of horse riding if she was to wander around and find the points in time.  
She wished she’d asked Francis how long it took him to find the ones he already had… It must have taken him years and years to get what he had already. And how long had he been looking for more, if indeed he had been? All these questions… She could go back home and ask him but for some reason, she felt compelled to stay. 

Poppy dismounted her horse to lead him across the river by the reins. It was still warm though a brisk breeze was fluttering at the bottom of her skirt the closer she got to Strawberry. 

She turned a corner and noticed someone standing in the middle of the trail further ahead. A man who was bending down and picking things off of the ground; it looked like he had dropped his bag and what looked like pieces of paper were scattered all over. The man was desperately picking them up before they were blown away by the wind.  
Poppy picked up her pace a little and went over to him.  
“Are you okay?” She asked as she neared him. She bent down and began scooping the papers up too, quickly realising that they were photographs.  
“Thank you so much,” the man stammered. The pair hurriedly picked up the remaining photographs. “I’m, ah, working on a project,” the man told her, gesturing at the photographs in her hands, “photography, as you can see. Albert Mason.” He said as he tipped his straw hat to her.  
He was cute, Poppy thought. Not necessarily the sort of man she would have been attracted to normally but there was something endearing about his fumbling mannerisms. 

“Poppy Sinclair.” Poppy said introducing herself with a smile as she turned her gaze down to the photographs now, there was one with several wolves, another with what looked like coyotes. “You shoot wildlife?”  
“Um, yes.” Albert replied. Poppy wondered if her word choice was off again. “I’m taking photographs of our greatest predators before they’re all mounted on some clubhouse wall! It’s not the easiest… But I enjoy the challenge.”  
“That must be rewarding,” Poppy said, flipping through more of the photographs, “to do something you’re passionate about.”  
“Well, yes. I suppose it is.” Albert replied, a faint flush on his boyish cheeks, looking down at the ground bashfully. His gentle brown eyes looked back up again as Poppy gasped.  
The photo she now held was of Arthur Morgan standing in a clearing, not quite looking at the camera, his hat once again casting shade over his face but that was undoubtedly him.

“Oh!” Albert exclaimed, “he’s not a predator, of course! At least I think not…”  
“Arthur…” Poppy said quietly.  
“Oh? You know Mr Morgan?”  
“Well, kinda…” Poppy stammered. She felt so silly for gasping, for being so shocked at seeing him again.  
Albert smiled fondly, “he’s a good man - a real gentleman! Helped me when a greedy coyote took off with my bag. He really saved me.”  
Poppy stared at the photo for another moment before handing them all back to Albert. “It’s a small world, Mr Mason.”  
Albert smiled brightly, “it definitely is that, Miss Sinclair. Thank you for your help.”

Albert was heading towards Strawberry so they went together. He talked quite a lot as it turned out, babbling about his project, animals, his hatred for hunters and pelts and the like. It was kinda nice to not have to talk. It was nice to not be asked where she was from or what she was doing there. Maybe because Albert was a little more learned and polite, he didn't feel it his place to question Poppy. It was nice to feel the passion exude from Albert as he explained how he was sick of taking portraits of bored housewives and how he wanted a new challenge.

When they reached Strawberry, Albert bid Poppy farewell before heading into the post office. It was dark by the time Poppy reached Francis’s cabin. Her first night there she hadn’t noticed the strange sounds from outside but now she heard them as plain as the day was long; the elk cry now sounded pained and in the distance, she was sure she could hear something else, a bear? She made sure the door was locked before going to sleep that night, for some reason she felt on edge and tossed and turned until the sun began to rise again. 

The small cot was nowhere near as comfortable as the bed in the Blackwater saloon but Poppy eventually drifted into a restless sleep where she dreamed of Arthur Morgan and large birds circling overhead.

****

The next morning was very much like the day before with the sun filtering through the trees and a gentle breeze blew through the cabin after Poppy had opened the windows. She took it upon herself to clean the place; if she was going to be staying there for any amount of time, she wanted it to be cleaner. It was dusty and dark, very much a man cave of sorts.  
It took all morning to scrub the place down and for Poppy to realise that the wooden floor was at least a shade lighter than she originally thought. If she was going to live there for however long it took to get the points in time, she definitely wanted better bedding - she wondered what the options were in 1899, she doubted they had tog duvet systems or goose down and Egyptian cotton pillows. It probably would have been better to check in Blackwater than Strawberry but that couldn’t be helped now.  
That man, Jimmy Brooks had mentioned a place called Valentine… When Poppy looked it up on the map, it wasn’t too far from her, maybe a day’s ride and they probably would have a saloon like Blackwater where she could sleep in a comfortable bed again. And it was also very close to where she had marked an “A” on her map at Horseshoe Overlook...

Poppy spent the majority of the afternoon cleaning the windows of the cabin that seemed to be besmirched with years of dirt and bird poop in a bid to get more light into the cabin when she heard hooves approaching.

She sang absentmindedly to herself. Poppy wasn't the best singer but karaoke was her guilty pleasure. Her music taste wasn't particularly refined, she usually just listened to whatever was on the car radio. Today she was singing the Jonas Brothers as she tried her best to get the bird poop off of the front window.

"That sure is an interesting song..." 

Poppy turned around, half knowing, half hoping who she would see. Arthur Morgan was sitting astride his silver coated horse, his hat off today and Poppy could see that his hair was longer than she expected, sandy blond and past his ears, grazing the nape of his neck. The first few buttons of his light blue shirt were open and the sleeves rolled up, he wore a vest today too, it looked like it was some sort of animal skin. He was smiling as he dismounted his horse.  
“Miss Sinclair!” He called to her, giving her a small wave.  
Poppy was suddenly aware how her hair was still a frizzy mess, how her face was shiny with sweat from all the cleaning she’d been doing and she felt her cheeks burn. If she’d known he was coming she’d have at least cleaned herself up a bit. 

“Mr Morgan.” She came down the steps of the cabin and walked towards him, hoping that he he couldn’t see the excitement in every step she took.  
“Doing some spring cleaning, I see?” Arthur said, gesturing to the house.  
“Something like that.” Poppy replied. “What… What brings you here?” In her head, he looked at her with those ocean green eyes and said _”to see you, of course. I can’t get you out of my head.”_ Maybe Poppy had watched one too many K-dramas…

But of course, he didn’t. It was Arthur’s turn to look away shyly as he said, "well I was jus' in the area and thought of you. How's your head?"  
"Fine now, thanks to you of course."  
"I was jus' doin' what anyone else would."  
Poppy somehow doubted that.  
“I was thinkin’ about you an’ that horse of yours… I don’t want you to have no more accidents so… Well, I thought maybe you could use some help with him.”

The Kentucky Saddler was aimlessly wandering around the yard eating the grass. Poppy looked over at it, she hadn’t really thought about it. She’d ridden the horse to Blackwater and back without much of a hitch… As soon as she thought of Blackwater she was reminded of the bounty poster: a robbery and multiple associated counts of murder...

“Help?” Poppy repeated.  
“Y’know, jus’ ridin’ and learnin’ how to take care o’ him and stuff.” Arthur said thoughtfully, strolling over to the stocky horse and petting his neck gently. “What’s his name?”  
“Oh, I haven’t really thought of one…” Poppy admitted.  
Arthur let out a surprised laugh, “he gotta have a name!”  
Poppy shrugged, “I guess I don’t want to get attached to him.”  
Arthur laughed again, “you sure are a strange one, Miss Sinclair.”

She didn’t know if that was good or not. Arthur suggested they go for a ride together and she accepted almost too quickly. Suddenly that bounty poster was in the back of her mind. She mounted up and Arthur led her horse by the reins out onto the trail.  
“I guess you don’t do much horse ridin’ over in Buffalo?”  
“Not really.” Poppy replied. She looked at Arthur rather than the trail; from here she could see his broad frame better, the outline of the muscles on his back and the curve of his butt. She looked away quickly before he noticed.  
He didn’t notice, however. “A horse can feel your fear,” Arthur was telling her, “so you gotta act confident. Don't pull on the reins or you'll yank his bit out, use your legs.”  
The stable master had already told her all of this but Poppy didn’t want to tell Arthur that partly because she didn’t want to embarrass him but also in case he changed his mind and headed back to camp. 

Arthur continued to walk beside Poppy, holding the reins and leading the horse slowly along the trail, his own horse following along behind after he had given a short whistle.  
“You seem to be much better than before,” he murmured, almost to himself than Poppy.  
As he talked, his gruff southern drawl enveloping every word, Poppy thought about yesterday - the bounty poster and the sheriff, Jimmy Brooks and Albert Mason.  
“A lil kick and a _yip yip_ and you can go faster when you’re ready.” Arthur told her. He looked up at Poppy now to see Poppy’s eyes fixed on the grey mane of the horse. “Everythin’ ok, Miss Sinclair?”  
She was snapped back to Arthur, the warm afternoon sun overhead caught in his hair and shimmered in his eyes.  
She nodded hesitantly, “of course.”  
Arthur’s eyes stayed fixed on her. His handsome face changed, brow furrowed slightly. For a moment she saw a different man, a killer? She didn’t know.  
They made their way to Owanjila lake, Arthur’s horse walking along behind them obediently but neither of them said another word, both lost in their own thoughts. Poppy wondered what he was thinking.

The lake was where Francis had taken her on their first day into 1899. Arthur helped Poppy down from her horse, holding out his hand for her and she took it. His hands were warm, the skin tough like she expected from a cowboy who spent the majority of his time outdoors.  
They sat in the grass and watched the water like teenagers.  
Arthur offered Poppy a cigarette. "Oh, I uh… I don't really…" She started.  
Poppy had only smoked a handful of times in her life, mainly at parties or bars when everyone else went outside to do so because there was nothing more tragic than being left alone while everyone else joked and chatted outside.

Her grandmother, Francis's wife Eva, had died of lung cancer. Francis gave up smoking himself after that, said he'd been smoking since he was a kid because they didn't know better then, Eva too.  
Poppy had noticed that people smoked a lot in 1899. Plumes of cigarette smoke enveloped her every time she walked into a building, men and women alike seemed to be constantly with a cigarette in hand. 

Arthur smirked, “not much of a smoker?”  
She supposed lung cancer wasn't something they knew about in 1899. One wouldn’t hurt though, right? She took the cigarette hesitantly from Arthur and he held out the already lit match to her. She knew to inhale until the tip of the cigarette glowed red. The first hit was always the nicest, that nicotine rush went straight to her head. Arthur lit his own cigarette and exhaled.

“How you enjoyin’ West Elizabeth?” Arthur asked her.  
“It’s pretty,” Poppy replied. She looked at the cigarette between her fingers, watching the way it burned down slowly. “People are kind and helpful.”  
Arthur nodded along at her words. “I don’t recall how long you said you were stayin’ for?”  
“I… I don’t really know.” Poppy replied. She didn’t know. Until she found the points in time? Until she got bored? She could always come back another time but if she went back home then returned again, Arthur would never remember meeting her, right? Everything would be reset. 

“Surely you got people you gotta get back to? Family… A husband?”  
Poppy nearly laughed. Arthur was just about as subtle as she was when trying to find out her personal information. “I’m not married, Mr Morgan.”  
“I’m sure it ain’t for lack of suitors.” Arthur replied.  
This time Poppy did allow herself to laugh, “I wouldn’t say that.”  
She hadn’t had anyone ask her on a date since college and that was three years ago. She supposed she hadn’t really been looking into dating too much because it was tiring as fuck. She’d tried online dating and even went to meet a guy from Cheektowaga for a museum date at the Museum of Science... Well, she would have gone on the date with him had he resembled his photo at all, but the photo he put on the dating site was from at least twenty years ago. Poppy didn't mind age gaps, what she did mind was honesty. Poppy had tried Tinder too until she was inundated with fuck boys and dick pics.  
_“I don’t know why you don’t just meet someone the old fashioned way.”_ Francis had said to her.  
The old fashioned way? That flawed notion of fate that you would meet your soulmate at the age of sixteen or seventeen in your home town and spend with them for the rest of your life when there’s a whole world of people out there? 

When she looked up at Arthur, he was gazing at her. She was taken by surprise again by how blue his eyes were, how handsome his face was. She took a moment to study his face: his nose looked as if it had been broken at least once and it wouldn't surprise Poppy if it had. The poster had said that Arthur was in his mid thirties and now she was closer to him, she saw that to be true from the faint lines on his forehead and the creases at the corner of his eyes, still handsome nonetheless.  
Something in Poppy seemed to snap. It was 1899 right now but 2020 where Francis was. Nothing she did to these people really mattered, just like Francis said: It goes on like clockwork. Whether you talk to them or not. Whether you intervene or not. It goes on and when you come back, it’ll all happen again.

“Listen…” She said to Arthur after she took a shallow drag on the cigarette, the nicotine high making her head fuzzy, “there’s something I need to ask you and I want you to be honest with me.”  
Arthur’s thick eyebrows shot to his hairline, he looked surprised but he nodded, “ok..?”  
“I went to Blackwater yesterday. You seem quite famous there…”  
Arthur heaved a sigh, putting his cigarette out in the grass. “I thought you was better at riding that horse than the other day…” he muttered.  
“Is it true? What those bounty posters say? Did you… Did you kill people?” Poppy felt childish saying it, she sounded childish but she had to know for some reason. She knew she could have never asked him and never known but she knew she’d think about it forever if she didn’t ask.

Arthur didn’t speak for a few moments. Poppy felt like she could see him thinking, his eyes flickering before settling on the correct words.  
“I ain’t a good man, Miss Sinclair.” He said finally. “I’ve done some bad things and I ain’t proud of them. I… I hurt people, sure. And I know that might be shocking to you. But I can't change that, I can only move on.”  
It was Poppy’s turn to sigh now. She had know deep down inside that the posters were true but she had hoped they weren't, for some reason. What about what Jimmy said? What about Albert? Was one or two good deeds enough to redeem a man from a life of crime? Probably not. 

“You gonna tell the law?” Arthur asked, sounding apprehensive.  
Poppy thought for a second. The idea hadn’t occurred to her, despite the sheriff in Blackwater telling her to do so. “What would you do if I said yes?”  
Arthur almost laughed but caught himself. His eyes crinkled into a smile. “Well, I’d probably have to tie you up an' take you back to my camp then we’d decide what to do with you from there… Either that or I’d leave you here, go back to my camp an' we’d have to move on. Hopefully the rope would hold til then an’ by the time you got yerself to the sheriff’s office, we’d all be long gone.”  
His gravelly voice would have sounded menacing had Poppy been certain that he meant what he was saying.

"I wouldn't want you to do that, Mr Morgan."  
Arthur chuckled softly, "and why's that, Miss Sinclair?"  
"Because then I wouldn't get to see you again... And I don’t want that.”  
She couldn’t believe she’d said it, she wasn’t the sort of person to say something like that, she wasn’t the sort of person to be so forward for fear of rejection… Something about being here, about being Miss Sinclair rather than just Poppy made her feel different. She didn’t quite understand it.

A smile tugged at Arthur’s lips. “I don’t want that either, Miss Sinclair.”

**Author's Note:**

> Comments, kudos and feedback always appreciated.  
> 


End file.
